The Double Traitor eBook

The fourth at the table, who was an elderly lady of
somewhat austere appearance, produced a small black
cigar from what seemed to be a harmless-looking reticule
which she was carrying, and lit it. Selingman
stared at her with his mouth open.

“Is this a bridge-table or is it not?”
she enquired severely. “These little personal
reminiscences are very interesting among yourselves,
I dare say, but I cut in here with the idea of playing
bridge.”

Selingman was the first to recover his manners, although
his eyes seemed still fascinated by the cigar.

“We owe you apologies, madam,” he acknowledged.
“Permit me to cut.”

The rubber progressed and finished in comparative
silence. At its conclusion, Selingman glanced
at the clock. It was half-past seven.

“I am hungry,” he announced.

Mrs. Benedek laughed at him. “Hungry at
half-past seven! Barbarian!”

“I lunched at half-past twelve,” he protested.
“I ate less than usual, too. I did not
even leave my office, I was so anxious to finish what
was necessary and to find myself here.”

Mrs. Benedek played with the cards a moment and then
rose to her feet with a little grimace.

“Well, I suppose I shall have to give in,”
she sighed. “I am taking it for granted,
you see, that you are expecting me to dine with you.”

“My dear lady,” Selingman declared emphatically,
“if you were to break through our time-honoured
custom and deny me the joy of your company on my first
evening in London, I think that I should send another
to look after my business in this country, and retire
myself to the seclusion of my little country home
near Potsdam. The inducements of managing one’s
own affairs in this country, Mr. Norgate,” he
added, “are, as you may imagine, manifold and
magnetic.”

“We will not grudge them to you so long as you
don’t come too often,” Norgate remarked,
as he bade them good night. “The man who
monopolised Mrs. Benedek would soon make himself unpopular
here.”

CHAPTER IX

Norgate had chosen, for many reasons, to return to
London as a visitor. His somewhat luxurious rooms
in Albemarle Street were still locked up. He
had taken a small flat in the Milan Court, solely for
the purpose of avoiding immediate association with
his friends and relatives. His whole outlook
upon life was confused and disturbed. Until he
received a definite pronouncement from the head-quarters
of officialdom, he felt himself unable to settle down
to any of the ordinary functions of life. And
behind all this, another and a more powerful sentiment
possessed him. He had left Berlin without seeing
or hearing anything further from Anna von Haase.
No word had come from her, nor any message. And
now that it was too late, he began to feel that he
had made a mistake. It seemed to him that he
had visited upon her, in some indirect way, the misfortune